


some want to kiss, some want to kick you

by orphan_account



Series: the arctic monkeys inspired series [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, just a drabble really, more max/charles using each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 09:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21335698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: some want to kiss, some want to kick you,there's not a net you couldn't slip through
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Series: the arctic monkeys inspired series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537813
Kudos: 34





	some want to kiss, some want to kick you

**Author's Note:**

> song title from the song 'brianstorm' by the arctic monkeys

** Charles had always** had a talent for getting everything he wanted.

He was persuasive, as sly as a fox and silver-tongued underneath the guise of a sweet, innocent cub looking for a guide, a shooting star to show him the way even though he knew what he wanted and how to get it; he was a sweet-talker, loved by everyone, an idol of gold which _tifosi _worshipped as if he was the embodiment of God himself.

With his sweet eyes, soft smile and French accent, he had people falling on their knees, leaving him offerings and he took it all in, the Prince worthy of their praise and love; how many have sacrificed their innocence, their pride just for the opportunity to touch the _royalty_ that was Charles Leclerc, _the Ferrari Prince._

The Golden Boy reminded Max of a snake, waiting for the perfect moment to strike; a wolf in sheep’s clothing, ready to devour the lamb that first came his way looking for affection and it made Max sick, how he had everyone fooled into thinking he was some sort of deity, the Saviour, when all Max wanted to do was kick his face in.

Which is why he relished the fact that _the Golden Boy, the self-crowned Ferrari Prince, _the Monègasque wonder, the Saviour, that _the_ Charles Leclerc was in front of him, knees digging into the coarse, cream carpet of the room in the five-star hotel they were staying in, looking up at Max’s eyes like a beggar, begging for something he knew well enough he won’t get, just like the times before and just like the times to come.

And Max loved it; he loved the way the palms of Charles’ hands were _red_ from scratching the rough surface, how his eyes were half-lidded, his chin grabbed by Max’s much rougher, much larger hand and looking straight into Max and through him, the way his lips were parted as he cried out brokenly, _“Please, do something,”_ and Max just watched, loving how he had _the Charles Leclerc_ completely at his mercy.

How much he wished he could memorise that moment forever, the tear-stained face and blotched cheeks, the mouth and chin dribbling come and so aroused that even the lightest of Max’s touches over his leaking erection had him writhing and begging for the sweet release that never came, always so close but so far away.

Max would kiss him, all teeth and bites and Charles would cry out, coming undone without even getting touched; Max would grin, sinking his teeth in until he could taste iron and then he’d pull away, straight out of the door without looking back at the mess he’d made.

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr](https://bakuturnnine.tumblr.com/)


End file.
